


Lengths

by Pouxin



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:19:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pouxin/pseuds/Pouxin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esca and Marcus are both on the GB Olympics swim team.  It’s Marcus' last shot at Gold after coming back from a devastating injury and switching teams from the USA to GB.  It's Esca's first Olympics. Esca hates Marcus.  That is until he...erm...doesn’t.  Aquatic sexytimes ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lengths

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to its original recipient and then lovely beta, the amazing [](http://stellarsara.livejournal.com/profile)[**stellarsara**](http://stellarsara.livejournal.com/). Also based on [ this prompt ](http://the-eagle-kink.livejournal.com/5005.html?thread=4933005#t4933005) on the eagle kink, but switched to be about swimmers. I knew NOTHING about swimming when I started writing this, and not much more now, so much gratitude to my swim!fan beta for her helpful guidance. All mistakes still my own!  
>  **Warnings:** Reference to injury and minor character death; some (mild) homophobic and xenophobic language  
> 

**Lengths**

_Tell me what you were thinkin',_  
To treat somebody so,  
The care he took,  
The lengths to which he'd go,  
The coals are hot,  
To walk across,  
Without your shoes,  
But in the end,  
Know that you've got nothing to lose,  
Nothin' to lose 

From _'The Lengths'_ by The Black Keys

 

 

Marcus doesn't like Loughborough. It's cold and grey and it rains the whole time. Literally. The _whole_ time. The damp makes his leg hurt, ironically enough considering he seems to spend half his life soaking wet. But there is something malicious and creeping about the British damp, something entirely separate from the sort of wetness Marcus is used to. He often thinks dreamily of Mississippi; of the long, humid summers; of swimming in the bayou after school; of hot days and hazy evenings where the air smelt like night-blooming jasmine and new bamboo. Back when he was young and whole; when nothing hurt; when his body felt like it was fizzing with life; winning swim meets; the surge of victory running from his heart into his loins; the confirmation of boys' eyes upon him; and, later, a cold beer in his hand and the strains of reggae music in his ears, his first kiss, sweet and somehow already familiar, like a strawberry bursting against the roof of the mouth. Of course there were shitty things about that time too. Living under the shadow of his father's shame. The tiny, cramped little house with an Aunt who saw him as nothing more than a burden, and an Uncle who couldn't even be bothered to look at him. The boy from that party, the one with kisses as sweet as summer fruits, who wouldn't even so much as smile at him in school: "I'm not fucking _queer_ , OK?" Cottia's wet eyes when he didn't ask her to prom.

 

 

The pool at Loughborough is pretty stunning though, even if the city itself leaves something to be desired. Better than Bath, and easily as good as the one Marcus used to train in back in Colorado. He makes suitably appreciative noises as Stephens, the head coach, shows him round. There are three swimmers in the pool already, and Stephens calls them over.

"Lads, this is Marcus Aquila. I'm sure most of you have met him before. Marcus, this is John Hunter, Lee Prince and Lucas Dacian.”

Marcus smiles and nods, and crouches to accept some damp handshakes. He does recognise all of them, especially Prince who is something of a legend in open water swimming circles, and known by fans as ‘The Seal’.

"And this is Esca MacCunoval," Stevens adds, indicating a figure slumped against a bench by the pool, hands bunched in his pockets, grey track hood pulled up so it obscures his face. Marcus hasn't seen him before. He looks too short and skinny for a swimmer, although it’s hard to tell with all the layers of clothing he has swaddled around him.

“Hi,” Marcus says warmly, extending his hand to be shaken. MacCunoval ignores him, so Marcus tries again, louder this time. “Hi, I’m Marcus.” With an exaggerated sigh MacCunoval removes his headphones from his ears and pushes his hood back to reveal a messy tumble of pale mouse coloured hair.

“I know who you are,” he says quietly. He does not take Marcus’ hand.

He looks surly and pale, with great, cold, miserable eyes and a jumble of features that are too big for his narrow face. In the instant their gazes meet Marcus feels a strange tug in his guts, a little burst of something like excitement or panic. It’s so sudden and startling, this pull of recognition and desire, that Marcus is worried for a minute his hand might start trembling, but he doesn’t drop it. Eventually, with another sigh, Esca takes Marcus' hand in his.

“Esca.”

He only touches his skin to Marcus’ for the briefest, softest moment; but it’s enough to feel that tug again, harder this time, hot and solid. Marcus wonders how he can not have seen Esca around on the circuit. He looks young, sure, but not quite young enough to be just starting out.

“I haven’t seen you before,” he says, “Around. Where have you been based?”

“Here.”

Esca looks as if he’s about to put his headphones back in, so Marcus says quickly, “But I haven’t seen you competing before.”

"I was a dancer," Esca says brusquely. "Ballet. I switched."

“Oh, right,” Marcus says. He smiles at Esca again – his big, friendly, warm smile which he stores up for when he wants to be particularly disarming. He might as well have given Esca the finger for the hostility with which Esca continues to regard him. “How come?”

"I wasn't aware I was under obligation to provide you with my life story. People switch. Disciplines, _countries_." He stresses the word with deliberate iciness, giving Marcus a long, narrow once-over. _Right. So that’s how it is_. Marcus had figured not everyone on the British team would exactly be happy to have him on board – with him being half-American, and the stuff with his dad, and the fact that he is – after all – still in many ways their rival. But he is, nevertheless, their team mate, and he didn’t think any of them were going to be outright rude about it.

“Well, sure,” he says, determined not to let this random guy, however strangely compelling he may seem to Marcus, see that he’s upset him. “No worries.”

“Right. No worries.” Esca gives him a tight, sardonic smile and then puts his headphones back in.

 

 

It’s a week later – a week of _not_ thinking about Esca MacCunoval, or his North Atlantic eyes, or the cold, dismissive tone to his voice whenever he grunts a response to Marcus’ friendly ‘hellos’ – that Marcus overhears Esca talking about him to Stephans. He’d got as far as the showers before remembering he’d left some goggles poolside, so he had turned back. He rounds the corner and there they are, almost close enough to touch, backs to him, eyes on the pool.

Esca is talking to Stephans, voice low and urgent. "Like - you know who his father was?"

"I think we all know that, Esca,” Stephans replies. “But I don’t see what that’s got to with Marcus. He’s never failed a drugs test, and God knows the USADA have always been all over him like a rash. Besides, he's a hero. That whole rescuing those children from the car crash thing? The public love him."

"I just don't know why we need to include a _yank_ ,” Esca growls in response. “We have plenty of home grown talent - _young_ home grown talent. Don't you see the message this is giving out? That we can't coach our own kids up to the required level, so we have to ship in some chubby American has-been whose mum once lived here for all of five minutes to get a shot at some medals. It's embarrassing. Plus it's total bullshit. I know he hasn’t done much indoor stuff, but Lee's good man, I told you - he's _good._ "

"Which is precisely why he's also on the team,” Stephans says, tone clipped and impatient. “And whatever you may think of Aquila he still has the fastest 200 free of anyone in the heats so far, so he stays.”

“Heats,” Esca says derisively. “Heats aren’t races. You know as well as I do that guy couldn’t win a race if his life depended on it. His nerve is gone. He bottles it every time. Which is why-“

Stephans cuts him off, irritation flavouring his soft Northern burr. “Thanks for your input MacCunoval, noted. Now I'd ask you kindly to leave the selection choices to me, and concentrate on your own performance. Which leaves a little to be desired lately, I must say."

Esca inclines his head slightly towards the floor in annoyance, and in doing so catches sight of Marcus, still standing damp and motionless in the corridor. He doesn’t even have the good grace to look embarrassed, he simply regards Marcus blankly with those thundery grey eyes. He looks calm, poised, untouchable. Nothing like Marcus. _His nerve is gone_. Marcus doubts Esca spends the last five minutes before meets throwing up violently in the toilets.

“I, um, forgot my goggles,” Marcus mumbles, hating himself for the slight tremble in his voice, and the flush he can feel heating his ears. Hating himself for sounding so apologetic, as if it’s his fault, as if he was purposefully eavesdropping or something, instead of Esca’s fault for talking about him behind his back, for judging him, for thinking he’s like his father.  
Esca says nothing, just stands back to let Marcus past, face as cold and still as a mountain lake.

 

Marcus pushes himself. Hard. Perhaps too hard. He knows he shouldn’t overdo it with his leg, but every time he’s in the pool, or doing weight training in the gym, he sees Esca’s cool, impervious face, hears his voice: _Chubby American has-been_ , and it makes him pull harder, the muscles in his thigh singing and straining with the effort. His teeth ache from gritting. His whole body feels like a bruise, swollen and aching. Hunter catches him almost falling over as he climbs out of the ice bath after training one day. The freezing water had numbed his thigh so much he’d forgotten how weak it is, and had stood down on it too heavily. He sees Hunter see him stumble, sees his eyes go to the messy stripe of scar tissue along his thigh.

“Hurts?” Hunter's face is a mask of sympathy. After Esca’s cold indifference and the rest of the team’s bored ambivalence, Marcus feels his heart warm with it.

He gives a smile, struggles to stop it turning into a grimace. “Yeah. I think I’ve overdone it a bit. Trying to impress everyone.”

Hunter laughs. “Tell me about it. Well, if it’s any consolation, we’ve all been the same. Showing off for the new boy. Even Maccers, and he never normally gets bothered by anyone.”

Marcus tries to keep the incredulity off his face. He sincerely doubts that Esca has been showing off for him. He sincerely doubts Esca would ever do anything for him, apart from look at him with mild annoyance. “Hmmm, well. I might need to take it easy for a few days. Rest my quads a little bit.”

Hunter’s eyes flicker back down to the scar. “Are you taking something for it?” he asks. “If not, you could ask the physio, Marcipor. He’s got this new stuff – I mean, it’s probably not as good as what you can get in the States, but I know that it...”

Marcus cuts him off coldly, feeling all the warmth drain out of him as abruptly as if someone had pulled a plug under his belly. “I don’t want it,” he says sharply.

“I think it would help, though,” Hunter continues. “They inject it right into the muscle, you know? It’s amazing for pain. You won't even feel it when you're in the water.”

“I'm not a cheat,” Marcus says shortly. “I’m not my father.” He feels like he might throw up. So this is what they all think of him: Hunter, Stephans, _Esca_.

Hunter actually looks a little shocked at the blunt anger in Marcus’ tone. “I know, I...” he starts, “I wasn’t suggesting that.... It's all perfectly legal.”

“I don't care if it's legal, not legal, semi-legal, whatever. I am not taking any drugs while I'm competing. Not as much as a fucking aspirin. Are we clear on that?” Marcus fights to keep the emotion out of his voice, but he can hear it there nevertheless, rough, uneven.

“Crystal clear,” Hunter says, still looking abashed. “Sorry I mentioned it. No hard feelings, hey?”

“Sure,” Marcus replies, managing a slightly forced smile. He already feels guilty for the strength of his reaction, wonders if he should apologise – but Hunter smiles back, seems OK. But he does notice that after that Hunter seems to be avoiding him, and Marcus often sees him sitting huddled with Esca, muttering, falling silent when he walks past, Esca giving his strange, unreadable look, one eyebrow raised, grey eyes endless.

 

 

Marcus has always known he wanted to be a swimmer, has known it in his bones, his blood. But then, the reason swimming is in his blood is because of his father. His father. Flavius Aquila. World Champion in the 100, 200 and 400 metre freestyle. Record Breaker. He’d had everything: success, money, matinee idol good looks, a pretty young British wife, a healthy baby son. He’d won three Gold medals at the ’84 Olympics in front of an adoring home crowd in LA. And then he’d tested positive for Stanozolol. Had his medals stripped off him. Was taken out of the record books. His wife left him. He never saw his son. He ended up dying in a trailer somewhere in the flatlands of northwest Mississippi, drunk and high, poor and alone. It took days for anyone to find him, even more for anyone to tell Marcus, who was just starting High School, that he was dead. It was funny, because when Marcus found out his father was dead he hadn’t even thought about him in years. But now he thinks of him all the time. _All the time_. He doesn’t know if he’s swimming for his memory or against it; if he wants to restore his father’s Golds to him through his own success, or renounce them; everything tight and knotted in his chest, a snarled up mess of grief and anger. But either way, he can’t not swim. No. That has never been an option.

 

After the awkward encounter with Hunter, Marcus makes an effort to be as friendly as possible with everyone on the team. His only friend in the UK to date is his elderly Uncle who he stayed with after recuperating from his injury, and, if he’s honest with himself, he’s lonely. He misses having people to talk to – even if it is, endlessly, about swimming. His charm offensive pays off, and after a while even Hunter seems like he’s forgiven him. The only person who doesn’t warm to him is Esca MacCunoval. Esca still looks at him with the same barely concealed disdain as he has right from the beginning. Marcus tells himself he doesn’t care, but he does. It doesn’t help that when he thinks about Esca, he still gets that strange, pulling feeling in his belly that he did the first time he saw him. Marcus knows what that feeling means now. _Oh God, no, not that, that’s the last thing I need_. _Not another repeat of what happened with Tom_.

So he finds himself caught in a strange limbo between desperately wanting Esca to like him, and trying to avoid him for fear if they did become friendly his ridiculous schoolboy crush would become embarrassingly apparent. If Esca notices Marcus’ somewhat schizophrenic behaviour towards him, he doesn’t say anything. But they do start spending more time together, simply by virtue of the fact they share the same disciplines and it makes sense for them to train with each other.

Esca is little for a swimmer, short and slight. But totally ripped. There's not an ounce of spare fat anywhere on him, everything is pared down to the bare minimum, economical, sleek, perfectly engineered for the task. And Esca is _fast_. Marcus finds himself almost hypnotised by the way he scythes through the water, a pale gleam of skin, his right arm stippled with the tattoos that crawl in a complex pattern around his bicep. He swims with such focus, such a purity of attention, that it is impossible not to watch him. The sight of him in the water, perfectly at ease, makes Marcus’ heart sing with joy, makes his chest feel warm and huge. Esca catches him watching one time, his eyes doubtlessly big and damp with admiration, and treats Marcus to a rare, scratchy smile. It is so unexpected, so out of character, that Marcus finds himself grinning back goofily, totally helpless.

"Not bad for someone who learned to swim in Thornaby public baths, hey?" Esca asks, propping his elbows on the side of the pool and shaking his hair like a dog’s.

“No,” Marcus replies, still grinning. “Not bad at all. Although I don’t believe you learned to swim like _that_ in a public swimming pool. You'd have knocked all the old ladies at their Wednesday evening water aerobics flying!"

Esca’s smile disappears so abruptly Marcus has difficultly in believing it was ever there. "Not everyone grew up in a house with an indoor heated pool, Aquila," he snaps. "Not everyone's daddy paid for them to have private swimming lessons from the moment they learnt to walk. Some of us had to make do with whatever scraps fell from the table. Some of us had to actually, you know, _work_ to get here."

Marcus feels a hot flare of anger work its way up from his belly, dispersing all the soft joy he’d felt there at Esca’s smile. Like Esca knows _anything_ about his dad. Or about him. "I worked,” he says, trying to keep his voice measured. “You think coming back from _this_ " and here Marcus indicates the dark clot of scar tissue over his right thigh "wasn't _work_?"

"Yeah, yeah, you came back from an injury. Big deal. Athletes do it all the time. Look at Lemieux, Milton, Armstrong. Shit, Tiger Woods played the US Open with a broken leg."

"It wasn't a broken leg, it was a double stress fracture in his tibia,” Marcus retorts hotly. “And that's _golf_. It's basically _walking._ I came back from ripping my quad open to compete in one of the most physically demanding sports there is."

Esca is giving him a look of pure contempt. "Oh, you're right. You are _amazing_. An icon for our times. Someone should give you a medal. Oh, right, yeah, sorry, you only actually get those for, you know, _winning a race_. Which is something you failed to do even before your _injury_. So good luck with that." He pulls himself quickly out of the pool, and stalks past Marcus, lithe and dangerous, a winter sea storm, a hunting cat. He pauses by the exit. "Oh, and by the way, it's really not very sporting to piss all over someone else's discipline. Golf is very physically demanding in its own way."

Then he’s gone. Marcus wonders how Esca always manages to make him feel like a total asshole, even when it’s patently Esca himself who is in the wrong.

 

 

Coming back from his injury _has_ been work. Mentally and physically, it has been the hardest thing Marcus has ever had to do in his life.

Marcus had been 25 when it happened. He had gone for a couple of beers with Tom Craddock after Friday training. They’d only had a few, but with all the exercise they did, three beers was enough to get them pretty buzzed. Marcus decided to leave his car outside the bar and get a cab, but Tom had insisted he could drive them back to Marcus’ apartment.

“Shit, man, I don’t know, we’ve been drinking.”

“Three beers Aquila! I think I can manage to drive the 10 kilometres to your house without totalling your car, even if you can’t.”

So - mainly because Marcus wanted to get Tom back to his, to tempt him inside with promises of another beer and some Playstation, then hopefully make out with him on the couch, maybe even get him upstairs to the bedroom, naked and hard and spread out on his sheets – mainly because Marcus was pathetic and stupid and selfish – mainly because Marcus was completely in love with a man who was in total denial about his bisexuality and treated their ‘relationship’ like a shameful, dirty secret – Marcus had given him the keys and let him drive.

Everything had been fine ‘til they’d reached the bridge over the river. Then, suddenly, there’d been another car, appearing out of the dusk like a ghost, right in front of them. Then, just as quickly, with a horrible squealing of brakes and retch of burnt rubber, it wasn’t in front of them. Instead it had careered over the barrier and plunged down into the river below.

Marcus doesn’t really remember what he had been thinking. He just remembers hot, white surges of terror running up his spine. He remembers wrenching the passenger door open, running to the ruptured tear in the barrier, looking down and seeing the nose of the car sinking into the swirling blackness.

Remembers seeing a brief press of pale terrified face against the glass.

Remembers kicking off his sneakers, unbuttoning his jacket.

Remembers diving.

It had been dark, so dark, and cold. He had found the car quickly enough, located the doors by touch, but they wouldn’t budge, not even when Marcus braced his legs against them and pulled with all of his might. Not even then, when he had strong, perfect, swimmer’s legs. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he’d seen a long fissure in the windscreen, surrounded by snarled metal, which he had managed to kick in enough to reach inside and help the passenger out. A woman. He pulled her to the surface. The whole way up she fought him like a wildcat, thrashing like an eel in his arms, and when their heads broke free into the rich, perfumed night air she’d screamed at him, almost incoherent. “My children! My children!”

So he’d dived down again. The first kid had been easy, and he’d pulled her free and carried her to the surface and left her with her mother, but the second was still a toddler, and was trapped, strapped into a booster seat in the back. Marcus had had to wriggle his way through the broken windscreen in order to undo the kid’s seatbelt. Then on the way out of the wrecked and waterlogged car, cold and distracted, lungs roaring, child heavy in his arms, he had felt his leg snag on the broken windscreen. He tried to twist out of it, but this only caused the jagged metal and glass to bite in deeper. His brain was screaming at him to back-up, but he knew if he did that he might not be able to get out of the wreck again. He was strong, he swam forward, pulling free. It had seemed fine. Everything had seemed like it might be OK. But then on the way to the surface his leg started to feel like it was made of diving weights - it didn't hurt or anything but it just felt so...damn...heavy. The water was too dark that deep to see anything, but when Marcus opened his mouth he could taste blood in it - the coppery tang mixing with the earthy tones of the river, and he somehow knew it was his.

He couldn’t swim.

It wasn't like his right leg simply wouldn’t work - that would have been bad, but he could have managed that, even with the kid, hell, he practiced arms only swimming most days - it was like it was an actual, physical weight dragging him back down toward the sinking wreck of the car.

_Fear._

Prickles of it needling all along his lungs.

_Don't panic, don't panic_.

The water, which he had loved since he was a child, which had soothed him, freed him, cooled him, calmed him, opened its arms to him and held him tight to its shimmering breast, was now his enemy: cold, heavy, clawing, jealous. _Why don't you stay here, Marcus_? _Why don't you lie with me? Stay, stay, stay_.

He remembers opening his mouth, gasping. Feeling the black water come rushing in, coldly joyous, streaming towards his heart. _This is how it will be then, drowning._ He remembers noting the irony, the sweetness of it, even as his chest hammered with panic. Then nothing. Black. Nothing.

He remembers endless days lying in the hospital’s cold and efficient whiteness. He remembers talking to the doctor, blearily, through a haze of pain killers. He remembers asking if he’d be able to swim again. “I'm a swimmer. I'm... I was one place off a medal. In Athens. At the Olympics.” The doctor had looked at him sympathetically. “I have every certainty you will swim again.” _Relief, bright_. “But... Well, the chances of you recovering full use of your leg, or reaching your previous...form, are... exceedingly slim.” “You're telling me I won't be able to compete at that level? Ever?” “Yes,” the doctor had said simply. “That is what I am telling you.”

There hadn’t seemed much left for him after that. His father gone, his mother gone, his dreams gone. The endless questioning over who had been driving the car. Tom eventually facing criminal charges for DUI. He had medical insurance, but there was only so far it would stretch in terms of physical therapy, especially considering he no longer had any way to earn a living. So when his Uncle had written, asked if Marcus would like to come and recuperate at his home in England, Marcus had gone. It was a relief to be out of that world, out of everything that reminded him of that world, out of everything that he could have been.

It was his Uncle who had encouraged him to start swimming again. First as part of his recuperation, then recreationally, and finally, tentatively, professionally. It was his Uncle who had urged him to take advantage of his dual Citizenship and try out for the British team. And so here he is. In Loughborough. Trying to make himself believe he can do it, that he has what it takes. _Trying_.

 

 

Esca appears to have reached a grudging truce with him. At least, he doesn’t mention the argument in the pool again. But neither does he treat Marcus to that rare, glowing smile again. Instead he returns to his usual surly nods and shrugs in response to Marcus’ lame attempts at drawing him into conversation. A small mercy: he appears not to notice Marcus’ longing looks, eyes always drawn into the moony glow of Esca’s skin, the perfect swimmer’s V of his body, the ridge of muscle where his pelvis flutes into his jammers.

 

 

"Chip?" Marcus asks, offering Esca the packet of prawn crackers he has been tucking into in as he sits in front of a video of last season’s time trials in the common room.

Esca barely glances in his direction. "You shouldn't eat that shit."

"Don't worry, I'll wash it down with some egg whites and pulses and a banana smoothie," Marcus offers, jokingly.

Esca mutters something largely unintelligible about "premium fuel" and "macronutrients".

Marcus shrugs irritated. "Well, I'm glad you have the time to get 8,000 calories down you via chicken salad and soya beans, Esca. I'm well aware of what makes a good diet, thanks very much. You think I've been in this game 21 years and don't even know how to feed myself properly?"

Esca gives him a long, narrow glance. "Yeah, I do actually. It's why you got fat."

"I beg your pardon?" Marcus can feel a horrible feeling: rejection, embarrassment, anger, bubbling up through his chest.

"It's why you were so big at the beginning of the season. The minute you stop training, you get fat. And you're slow. And you're old. And your leg took ages to heal. It's all that fast food crap you put inside yourself. It's like my mam used to say: rubbish in, rubbish out."

"Well, aren't you quite the amateur nutritionist. Why don't you tell Sassy you're next in line for her job? Jesus." Marcus throws the crisp packet to the floor and goes to stalk out of the room. He pauses at the door, clenching one fist, turning back to glare at Esca, who is staring, disinterested and apparently unmoved at the television. "And another thing - slow? Old? Still managed to knock your PB into a cocked hat, didn't I? _Fat_? Fuck you, man. Fuck you."

Esca shrugs, doesn't even look at him. "Whatever."  
`

Marcus decides to ask Prince about it in the gym one day, seeing as he and Esca seem to be pretty tight.

“What’s his deal?” Marcus asks. “Why does he hate me so much?”

Prince gives him a measured look and then squints over at Esca. “Esca? He doesn’t hate _you_ or anything, I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“He’s doing a pretty convincing job of being someone who hates me,” Marcus mutters.

“He’s just angry at the world, is all,” Prince says. “His parents died when he were young, you know, he kind of got lost in the care system, somehow pulled his way through. Then he lost out on some place at some shit hot ballet school in Russia because he couldn’t afford it. He hasn’t had an easy time of it in swimming either, you know, what with the... Erm, you know? Like, I guess maybe in ballet they expect it... No, I don't mean that, that sounded dickish, it's not like I think all guys who do dance are... I mean... It's just, it's hard with that and the swimming, you know...?” Prince trails off, cocks his head.

Marcus doesn’t know, hasn't got the faintest clue in fact, but he feels he can’t really ask, so he just nods, shrugs.

“I don’t really see what any of that’s got to do with me,” Marcus says.

Prince looks at him askance. “Yeah, well. I just think with your background and your dad and everything...” Marcus gives him a sharp look, but Prince carries on, undeterred. “Plus, you had a bit of a rep, you know. You were a pretty big name on the circuit, you and your boy Craddock. Always in the press, going out partying, being a bit...you know...brash. All that ‘gamesmanship’. Esca has some... some pretty strong ideas about how sportsmen should behave.”

“I know,” Marcus says quietly. “But I was different then. I was still a kid, really. Things changed.”

Prince gives him a sympathetic look. “Yeah. I guess it didn’t work out too well for Craddock either.”

“I know, I know. He went to prison and I’m a hero. If it means anything: I don’t feel like a hero.”

“Yeah, well,” Prince smiles at him and gives him a gentle punch on the arm. “Just try and be a hero for us, man. That’s all I’m saying.”

 

 

 

He still almost dies of shock when Esca approaches him after training one day and asks if he’d like to get a drink.

“I don’t really...um... I mean, what happened to ‘rubbish in, rubbish out’?” Marcus asks, praying to God that he’s not starting to blush.

Esca scowls at him. “I meant it figuratively. We can have juice.”

So here they are, sitting in some dingy student pub near the sports’ centre. For the past 10 minutes or so they’ve been making banal small talk, about swimming mostly, but after a while Esca says, “Lee talked with me. I’m sorry if I’ve been unfair on you. You’re a good swimmer. You’re useful in the relay. I’m pleased you’re on the team.”

Marcus is so taken aback he can’t think of anything to say. “Thanks.”

Esca studies his J20 for a while. “You’re gay, right?” He doesn’t look at Marcus.

Marcus takes a deep breath. “Yeah.”

“You were with Craddock?”

“Sort of. Yeah. In between all the girls he used to pick up.”

“And he tried to pin that accident on you? Make out like you were driving?” Marcus can hear the accusatory note in Esca’s voice.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, picking at the varnish peeling off the table.

Esca snorts. “Nice guy.”

“He panicked. The police assumed I was driving because it was my car. He just didn’t correct them. For a while.”

“Hmmm,” Esca says, clearly unconvinced. He opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else, but then closes it again. After a while he adds, “me too.”

“You too what?”

“You know.” Esca looks at him pointedly.

Oh. _Oh_. Suddenly it all makes sense, the way Prince started fumbling for words when he was trying to explain to him why Esca and dancing and swimming.

So Esca is... And they are...

_Oh_.

“Hang on, is this, like, a date?” Marcus feels his heart give a little delighted flutter of hope.

Esca smirks. “No, it’s not a _date_ Marcus. If I wanted to ask you on a date, you’d know about it, OK? This is just two guys – two team mates – having a drink. A _friendly_ drink.”

“Sure, sure,” Marcus can feel himself start to blush, much to his horror. He feels miserable. Stupid and miserable.

Esca is still looking amused. “I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you. I do realise what with the romantic setting” – he indicates the grotty looking bar – “this could easily be confused for a date. And all the effort I’ve gone to with my appearance. This sweat shirt is only 14 years old.”

“Shut up,” Marcus mumbles, still blushing.

Esca grins at him then, and that almost makes things better. _Almost_. “You are cute when you’re grumpy. But just – you know – I try not to mix business with pleasure.”

“Yeah, me too. Especially after... Tom.” It’s barely even a lie.

Marcus almost can't decide which is worse. The old Esca, who only looked at him with quick, knife sharp disdain; or this Esca, who allows him brief, unchecked smiles, full of warmth and shared understanding. This Esca, who claps him on the hollow between his shoulder blades after they smash their old relay time. Who places a cool hand on his hips during planks, gently moving him to one side: "don't favour your left so much when you're tired. Here." But there is no note of reprimand in it, or mocking, just that: words of advice, the brief press of Esca's skin against his own. Marcus feels undone by it, this change in Esca. Now he no longer has to fight for Esca's good opinion, he feels adrift, lost, overwhelmed by the strength of his own desires. Esca, as always, seems not to notice. He is as calm and detached as ever, leaving Marcus to his fevered dreams: the soothing, ice-cream-cool of Esca's touch on his aching, burning skin.

In April it’s the FINA swimming championships in Doha. Marcus feels so sick with nerves he can barely function, let alone swim. He’s felt like this for days. Even Esca has started to look worried about him. He is sitting by himself in the athlete’s canteen at the hotel, trying to force himself to eat the plate of pasta in front of him, when Terry Placidus and Claude Hieron, two of his former team mates, stalk over to him.

"If it isn't the turn coat," Placidus says snidely. "Although... correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe that's what they called soldiers who defected to the _winning_ team. The _US_ team. We're probably going to have to come up with a whole new phrase for people who decide to switch over to a group of losers."

"Turn trunks," Heiron says loudly, and laughs. But then he slaps a warm hand good naturedly on Marcus' back. "How're you doing anyway, man? You look good."

Marcus swallows heavily, lets out a long breath. “Yeah, good, good. I’m good. How about you two?”

“Oh, you know us,” Hieron smiles, “On fire. The usual.”

“You don’t look too good to me,” Placidus says, voice weaseling and cruel. “Either in or out of the pool.”

Marcus shrugs, refusing to let Placidus rile him. “I’m fine.”

“Aren’t you going to ask how your _friend_ Tom is doing?” Placidus asks, his voice as slippery and lethal as a snake. “He’s back swimming again, you know. Bit out of shape. I don’t think they had a pool in the penitentiary.”

Marcus feels like he might throw up. He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out.

Then he hears a familiar voice from behind him. “Why don’t you two just piss off?” Esca asks brightly, casually. He gives Placidus and Hieron a winning smile, lays one hand almost proprietarily on Marcus’ shoulder.

“We’re just catching up with our old buddy Marcus, is all,” Hieron protests.

“Yeah, that’s what it sounds like. Your normal brand of kidology bullshit. Now, off you go, clear off. Marcus needs plenty of rest ready for whipping your arses tomorrow.” Esca’s tone is still deceptively light.

“Yeah, I bet he’d like that,” Placidus mutters.

“What now?” Esca asks.

“You heard.”

“Well, I’m not sure I did, _Terry_ ,” Esca says sweetly, “because what I heard sounded a _bit_ like the sort of comment which might get you in a whole load of trouble with FINA. So I’m really hoping I got it wrong. But I’m sure you heard _me_. Piss. Off.”

“Fine, whatever,” Placcidus grumbles, and he and Hieron slope back over to where the US team is eating.

Marcus turns to Esca. “Thanks,” he says. Esca lets his hand linger for a moment longer on the broad ridge of Marcus’ shoulder.

“Don’t mention it. Now why don’t you go and try to get some sleep? Placidus was right. You look like shit.”

 

 

It’s no use though, Marcus can’t sleep, no matter how hard he tries. Every time he shuts his eyes he’s back under water again, in the pitchy black of the river, and his leg is made of stone. He feels his heart start to race, acid squirting inside his guts, his lungs clenching so tight he can barely breathe. He can’t race tomorrow. _He can’t_. He wasn’t even good in competitions before the accident, and now... He thinks of what Esca said that time he overheard him talking with Stephens. _His nerve has gone... Bottles it every time_. Marcus knows even if he’s managed to get his body back into shape, he’s the psychological equivalent of a 20 pound weakling. They’re going to crucify him tomorrow. He’s going to die.

Eventually he does fall asleep, but only to dreams of the choking black river again. _Welcome back, darling. I’ve been waiting for you_. When he wakes with a start, drenched in sweat, the red light of the alarm clock only reads 01:27. He gets out of bed, pulls on some pyjama pants and an old t-shirt and makes his way down to the deserted lobby to buy a soda.

“Hey,” comes a voice from the corner, almost making Marcus jump out of his skin. Esca is sprawled on a sofa, in a faded GB tracksuit, fiddling with his iPod.

“Hey,” Marcus responds croakily.

“Can't sleep?” Esca asks.

Marcus rubs his hand roughly up over his face, scrunching up his nose, eyelids, forehead. “No. I get these dreams... the accident... my mind goes blank, my leg feels like it's made out of lead...”

Esca pushes himself off the sofa and walks over to him.

“It’s just a bad dream. Everyone gets stressed before a big race.”

“It’s not... It’s... I'm in the water and I can't swim, I can't swim. What if I can’t swim? What if I've lost it? What if I've totally lost it, Esca?” Marcus can hear the quiver in his voice, and he hates himself for it, but he feels broken by everything, sick to his bones, and so tired.

“You’ll be fine,” Esca says confidently.

“It was my fault anyway, that accident, it was all my fault. I deserve to lose it, I deserve..." to his horror, Marcus feels his voice start to clog up with unshed tears, and the next thing he knows he actually is crying. Not subtle, manly tears either, but great, gasping, snotty sobs that wrack his whole body.

Then Esca's arms go around him, his head is on Esca's firm shoulder, Esca's hands are in his hair.

“Shhhhhh,” Esca murmurs, running his hand gently along the back of Marcus’ head and stroking the hair that grows at the nape. “Shhhh. You’ll be fine. You haven't lost it.”

Marcus lets himself nuzzle into the crook of Esca’s neck, enjoying the delicious comfort of having someone stroke his hair, letting it soothe and relax him. Esca smells amazing, fresh and citrusy. Marcus is sure he smells like sweat and chlorine, but somehow Esca smells clean and pure, like he's spent all day practising in an alpine lake.

“That’s better,” Esca says as Marcus’ sobs shrink to sniffs, and then just ragged breathing. “Shit, come on. You were the fastest man in the pool in practice today, whatever that dick Placidus says. You know that.”

“I'm old and slow and fat, like you said,” Marcus mumbles into Esca’s shoulder.

“Did I say that?” Esca gives a dry laugh, and pulls back slightly away from Marcus, his arms still loosely looped around Marcus’ sides. “I probably did say that. I'm a nasty little bugger, aren't I?”

Marcus manages a weak smile.

“That's better. Anyway –“ Esca slides his hands down Marcus' biceps, then tucks them in to scoop along his waist, thumbing his abs before allowing them to settle on his hips – _“I_ certainly can't feel any fat on you now.” His voice sounds low and deep, almost a purr.

Marcus' mouth has gone scratchy and dry. No one has touched him like that in such a long time. He spends his life being poked and prodded and massaged and measured and weighed; and then there's the rough housing of his team mates, the congratulatory slaps on the back, the high fives. But to touch him slowly, to touch him gently, to touch him just because of the desire to touch - no one has done that in longer than Marcus can remember. He sometimes feels like his body is basically public property, but Esca's touch feels like the most private, the most intimate, thing in the world.

Esca runs his hands down over the high domes of Marcus' ass.

“No, I'd say that feels like all muscle to me. Lean muscle.”

“Esca- “ Marcus starts, but then doesn't know how he can finish.

Esca steps away from him slightly, fingers still feather light on his ass, looking up at him with an expression that Marcus can only describe as mischievous. He trails his hands round the front of Marcus' thighs, then pushes the heel up hard to rub against Marcus' rapidly stiffening prick.

"Hmmm. Even that feels pretty muscular to me. It's certainly _hard_. Impressive stuff."

Marcus can feel himself blushing. Jesus. _Esca MacCunoval_ is touching him up in the _hotel lobby_. He could die of shock.

Esca lets his hand cup Marcus for a moment longer, and then lets go, giving the tip of Marcus' erection a teasing tweak as he does so.

“Well, that certainly seems to have cheered you up a bit,” he says. “Now go and _try_ and get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.” He grins at Marcus and starts to walk out of the lobby. Marcus stands there, dazed. He feels surreal. Did that even just happen?

“And no wanking the night before a race,” Esca calls over his shoulder.

 

Of course Marcus does. He makes it quick, and it helps - with the getting to sleep thing. It’s pretty easy to be quick. Moving the action from the lobby to his anonymous hotel bedroom, moving Esca's hand from the front of his pyjama pants to decidedly under them, from cupping to stroking, from Esca being in his training tracksuit to his tight little swim pants, all pale and hard and wet from the pool and - boom - Marcus goes off so hard he feels like he is 15 again. And then he gets up the next day and races, and places 3rd, and _Thank God_ , he can still swim, he can still do it.

 

 

He sees Esca on his way out of his debrief with Stephens.

“Hey, well done –“ he starts, but Esca gives him a tight, abortive shake of the head, and Marcus worries he’s come across as patronising, but then Esca calls over his shoulder “Wait for me? In the showers?” and Marcus nods, feeling that same panicked, excited tug in his guts that he got the first time he ever laid eyes on Esca.

Marcus stands under the warm spray and washes his hair, deliberately keeping his hands as far from his cock as possible. He’s worried the slightest touch will set him off, start him swelling with arousal, and that certainly isn’t something he wants in the shower room, where any member of the team could walk in. He tries his best not to think about Esca. _Wait for me? In the showers?  
_

But then suddenly Esca is there, one hand on his hip, looking at Marcus with narrowed eyes.

“I’m not happy with you, you know,” he says, “beating me.”

Marcus feels his stomach lurch with disappointment, he’s somehow got this all wrong, Esca isn’t actually interested in him like that at all; or, he was, but now he’s mad at him. He should never have said that stupid “well done” comment, of course it was patronising, especially after Ecsa has been so supportive of him recently...

“How are you going to make it up to me?” Esca asks, the rough edges of his accent now softened to something purring and delicious.

Marcus swallows heavily. “Um...”

Esca looks at him speculatively, head cocked to one side. His gaze is so frank and so sexual that Marcus can feel himself starting to stiffen under his swim shorts, blood fizzing under his skin as it fills his cock.

“Take your jammers off,” Esca says quietly.

“What?”

“Take your jammers off.”

“Jesus, Esca, it’s not exactly private here, anyone could...” Marcus starts.

“I won’t ask again.”

Marcus hitches a thumb into the elastic of his swimming shorts, flush in with the juts of his hip bones. Then he rubs one hand gently across his belly – why not give Esca a show, if that’s what he wants? Esca gives a small noise of approval as Marcus edges his trunks down, slowly, slowly, until the root of his cock is exposed, thick and dark with blood. He pauses. Esca’s eyes have gone very dark, grey as a winter’s evening.

“I didn’t tell you to stop.”

“You like that, huh?” Marcus asks trying to keep his voice casual, amused, but instead sounding gruff with desire. “You like that cock?”

“I don’t know, yet,” Esca replies smoothly. “You’ll have to let me see it properly”. But his voice has gone even lower, and his eyes look bright and happy.

Marcus eases his shorts down over his thick thighs. He’s almost completely hard now, just from having Esca’s eyes on him, just from the slight stagger in Esca’s voice.

“Christ, Marcus,” Esca says when his dick finally springs free, bobbing up towards his stomach. Esca’s voice sounds husky, admiring. “At least no one can ever accuse you of steroid abuse.”

Marcus lets out a surprised huff of laughter. “I guess not.”

Esca steps closer, places one hand firmly against Marcus’ chest, pushing him back against the cold tiles, an exquisite contrast to the heat of the water. Eyes locked on to Marcus, he trails his fingers down Marcus’ sternum, over his belly, and then rests them lightly on the very tip of Marcus’ stiff cock. Marcus feels his prick jump into Esca’s hand, desperate for a firmer touch. Esca laughs, takes his hand away.

“Nice,” he says. “Turn around.”

He’s almost scared of him. Sullen and mysterious, with that easy dancer’s grace about him that ties Marcus’ stomach in knots. But he thinks of Esca sticking up for him in front of Placidus, remembers his kindness the other evening. Esca wouldn’t hurt him.

He turns, leaning his head against the wall to get it out from under the spray. He feels Esca’s fingers on him, again far too gentle, skipping lightly up the inside of his thigh and dusting over his balls. He can’t help a little moan escaping him.

“You love being touched,” Esca says, and he says it as a casual observation, as a fact, so Marcus doesn’t feel the need to answer him.

Then there’s nothing for a long time, and Marcus begins to worry that Esca has walked off and left him there, naked and spread eagled against the wall of the shower. But then he hears Esca breathing over the sound of the water, and knows that he is just standing there, looking at him. The thought of Esca looking at him, the thought of Esca liking looking at him, sends another surge of blood right to his prick.

“Esca,” Marcus breathes, when he can’t wait any longer, when he thinks he’ll go mad if Esca doesn’t do something, anything.

“You look good in the shower. Even better than in the pool. All wet and hard and naked,” Esca says quietly, “I bet you're really clean. Let's see.”

Marcus is expecting Esca to touch him again, or maybe ask him to turn back round so he can kiss him, touch his cock, but instead to his surprise he suddenly feels something wetter than the shower on him, Esca's tongue. Right on the inside of his buttocks, where the skin is as fine as sifted flour. It’s like touching a battery to your tongue to check if there’s still juice in it, Marcus’ whole body hums with shock. Then he feels Esca’s hands gently holding him in place, holding him open, and then Esca’s tongue is lapping right against his hole. Marcus moans, pressing his dick desperately against the tiled wall of the shower, trying to cool it down, to get a handle on how far gone he feels knowing Esca is on his knees behind him, licking into him, sucking him, biting at his hole. His insides feel buttery, smooth and silky with lust. He feels Esca push a spit-wet thumb inside him, and he eases back against it, breathing out hard through his mouth.

“Yeah,” he manages, “Oh, yeah.”

He hears the snicker of the lid to his shampoo being opened, and then Esca reaches round and fists his cock in one slick hand, making Marcus’ knees tremble even more than then do after training.

Esca jacks him in smooth, pulling strokes, adding an exquisite twist at the tip. His other thumb is still thrusting rhythmically into Marcus’ pulsing hole, his tongue still licking around the tender stretched flesh there. Marcus feels that familiar Esca-tug in his belly, but this time it punches even harder, pulls and clenches, his balls growing tight and hot near Esca’s mouth.

“God... Esca...” And then he’s coming, all over his own belly and Esca’s wrist.

He hears Esca laugh softly and wonders if he should feel embarrassed, but then when his knees finally stop quivering enough that he can turn round, he can see Esca is hard and straining against his own swim trunks, clearly almost as aroused by what they just did as Marcus was.

Marcus gives him a slightly breathless grin. “I thought you were angry with me? That didn’t seem very angry.”

“I am.” Esca gives a lazy, dangerous looking smile. “I’m going to make you suffer for beating me, don’t you worry. I’m going to take you back to my hotel room and fuck you so hard you won’t want to do anything more energetic in the pool than lying on a lilo for _weeks_.”

Marcus’ belly gives a delighted clench of lust. “And if I keep beating you?”

“Well, I’ll have to keep making you find ways to make it up to me, won’t I?”

“And what happens when you beat me?”

“You get to fuck _me_ ,” Esca smiles again, lupine, eyes dark with desire. Then he turns. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Esca, wait...,” Marcus says, catching hold off Esca’s wrist. Esca allows himself to be pulled back towards Marcus, damp bodies close to touching.

“I thought _you_ were the person who didn’t want to do anything here because it’s too public,” Esca teases.

“I just want...” Marcus tries to pull him in for a kiss, which Esca gently resists.

“Don’t get all soppy on me now, Marcus,” Esca chides. “You’re not going to stay on top acting like that.”

So Marcus lets Esca lead him up to his hotel bedroom, where Esca definitely gets to stay on top.

 

 

The Olympic training is pretty brutal. Marcus aches all the time now, his muscles from swimming, and other parts of him from Esca’s skilful ministrations. Esca is friendly with him, but still slightly cool, detached. At least when they’re inside the aquatic centre. They train together a lot. Their rivalry outside the bedroom remains just as heated as their fucking inside it. Despite, or maybe even because of, the fact that Esca is regularly making him come harder than he ever has before, Marcus really wants to beat him in training. He discovers a competitive edge he doesn’t remember having had since he was a teenager. He beats Esca's times more often than not, and on those days Esca fucks harder and thrusts deeper, as if to say, _You may be the best out there but we both know who's boss right here, right now._ Marcus can’t exactly say he minds. But he wishes Esca were more affectionate with him sometimes, more loving. He wishes Esca would want to do couple stuff with him, to go to restaurants and the movies and hold his hand. They still rarely kiss; only rough, mouth-grinding, gasping ones when they’re fucking each other; barely kisses at all, more biting, panting into each other’s mouths. He tries to raise it with Esca, tell him how much he cares about him, find out what they are to each other, but Esca never wants to talk about it.

“I’m not an arsehole like your friend Craddock, OK? You’re not going to catch me stumbling out of some wanky nightclub at 2 in the morning with some buxom blonde. If I’m with you, I’m with you. But neither am I ready to get into the whole capital R Relationship thing. I’ve got to concentrate on my swimming. You know how it is.” He says it almost like a question, and Marcus has to stop himself from shaking his head. “I don’t have time for... _romance_ and all that head-fuck stuff. And I can’t be _worrying_ about you like that. We’ll be competing against each other. Part of me has to...” Esca trails off, and then looks at Marcus with softness.

“What?”

Esca sighs, turns away. “I don’t know. Like part of me still has to hate you.”

“Oh. OK.” Marcus gets that sad, desperate feeling high in his chest again, bunching up there and making it hard for him to breathe.

“Oh, don’t look so bloody miserable,” Esca huffs, looking back over at him. “I don’t _actually_ hate you, OK? Now, come here and I’ll give you a nice blow job and you’ll feel a lot better. If you’re very good, I’ll even let you cuddle me afterwards.”

 

 

Even though he feels more prepared than he has before any race in his life, Marcus still finds himself in the bathroom just minutes before he needs to be poolside for his first Olympic heat, struggling not to be sick. He breathes in through his cupped hands, closes his eyes.

He pulls upright abruptly when he hears someone else enter the stalls, but it’s only Esca. He’s wearing a short towelling robe, but for once Marcus feels too stressed and nauseous to find the sight of Esca’s gleaming pale skin arousing.

“Are you OK?” Esca asks.

“Hmmm,” Marcus manages weakly.

Esca raises an eyebrow at him, and then looks down at the floor. The tips of his ears look red. “I just wanted to give you something.” If Marcus didn’t know him better he would say Esca sounded _nervous_. Almost as nervous as him.

Marcus eyes him suspiciously. “What?”

“This.”

And then Esca is kissing him; a gentle, opened mouthed kiss, full of tenderness, knuckles rasping gently against the stubble on Marcus’ jaw, tongue licking softly between Marcus’ lips. Marcus feels delight bloom inside his chest, warm and silky.

“That’s for luck,” he whispers when he finally pulls away, face flushed, eyes bright.

“Esca...” Marcus gives him a happy, tentative smile, unsure of what this might mean.

“I’m still going to beat you, don’t worry,” Esca says quickly stepping back out of Marcus’ reach. “But, you know... I just wanted to let you know there’s no one else in the whole world I would rather win Silver.” He looks at Marcus for a bit and then smiles, softly touches his arm. “Proud of you.”

Marcus nods mutely, not really trusting himself to speak.

Then Esca is gone, leaving Marcus alone in the bathroom, quiet except for the distant roar of the crowd at the aquatic centre. Marcus puts one hand against his unsteady heart. Then he starts to smile. Whatever happens in the race, Marcus feels like he's already won.


End file.
